


the wisdom of a cat

by shestepsintotheriver



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (though it is very minor and brief), Aka Aiden never dies, Everybody Lives, Idiots in Love, Lambert hates everything, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor Lambert/Keira Metz, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Siblings, Witchers don't have feelings except yes they really do, Witchers in Love, a roll in the hay (literal AND metaphorical), and then along came Aiden, minor Aiden/OMC, reluctant pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29088459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Lambert falls in love the way he does everything else: long-sufferingly and to his own great annoyance.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 134
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dunno how long this is gonna be, i'm just going along with the muses
> 
> cw for this chapter:  
> \- swearing  
> \- nudity  
> \- Lambert being a grumpy grump

Despite the fact that relations between Witchers and the rest of the world have vastly improved since Geralt’s infernal bard first started singing their praises some twenty-five years ago, Lambert remains the kind of Witcher who expects everything go sour at any moment. With his “less than stellar attitude” (thanks, Coën) and “dickishness” (fuck you, Geralt), he’s not exactly the kind to inspire good faith or favourable first impressions.

No, Lambert is the type to walk around with one hand always hovering near a weapon and his face set in a perpetual scowl, even in cities where he doesn’t actively have to worry about watching his back. He holds onto grudges almost obsessively, and one thing he’ll never forget is how easily humanity goes from tolerating his presence to despising it.

That might be why humans still instinctively shy from him in this day and age. Between the scars on his face and the freaky yellow eyes (“and don’t forget the ‘fuck you’ glower”, fuck off, Geralt, you don’t get to talk about glowering to _anyone_ ), he does not look friendly. To be perfectly fair, he _isn’t_ particularly friendly either, but Lambert is the type to be annoyed about everything, so don’t even try to apply logic to it. He’d be just as unhappy if people _did_ try to talk to him.

Add in the fact that he’s travelled too far south for comfort—to this picturesque Aedirnian town banked on the Yaruga, famed for its restorative waters and a particularly sought-after type of stout beer—and just found out that the contract he came for has already been fulfilled just this evening by another Witcher, and Lambert is not having a good day.

But then the alderman has the audacity to look at his medallion and go, “If that’s supposed to be a wolf pendant, you’re a bit short of the mark.”

Lambert blinks at him. Not just because he’s unused to being sassed by humans, but also because he has no idea what the fuck the alderman is talking about. ‘Supposed to’? ‘ _Supposed to_ ’? He’s confused enough that he double-checks his medallion, just to be sure it’s still there. “It _is_ a wolf pendant.”

The alderman squints. “It looks more like a dog. Not at all like the one the Wolf Witcher wore earlier—”

“What the fuck are you talking about.” There are no Wolf Witchers down this way at the moment. Geralt has been holed up at Kaer Morhen with Ciri, Jaskier, and the two sorceresses since winter, and he isn’t going anywhere for a good long while; Vesemir had gone north only a month past; and Eskel had gone east the second the thaw set in. There are no more Wolves to be confused with.

The more the alderman prattles, the clearer several things become: firstly, that his vision really isn’t that great at close range; secondly, that he’s perfectly happy to argue with a Witcher about something he doesn’t know shit about; and thirdly, that there’s a Witcher in this town who isn’t a Wolf and yet is perfectly happy to pretend that he is.

That, coupled with the fact that he stole—well, he didn’t actually _steal_ anything, he was just faster than Lambert, but as already stated, Lambert is not that keen on logic—a job out from under Lambert, and Lambert is perfectly happy to tear off in pursuit of whatever prick has thought to pretend to be one of his brothers. He’s got a few choice words for him, and none of them are nice.

* * *

Of all places, he finds The Pretender at one of the many bath houses that line the riverbank. It’s not the largest, but definitely one of the more expensive establisments—Lambert _tchs_ , what kind of Witcher spends all his money at a fucking bath house when a bath tub at the inn will do the job just fine—all handsome granite and marble, probably imported from Toussaint.

“Sir,” an attendant gasps, as Lambert storms straight through the courtyard towards the front hall, “Sir! I can’t let you in there! _Sir_ —”

But Lambert is already inside, and no one stops an angry Witcher unless they have a small army at their back. His arrival does not go unnoticed. The other attendants bustling around gape and stare at him; some patrons hastily move out of his way; and at the counter in the front room, The Pretender turns to look at him, backing up as Lambert gets in his face.

Lambert’s first thought is that he’s very tall. Lambert isn’t a small man himself, even if he’s the shortest of the Wolves; he’d like to tell you that Geralt’s size is simply a side effect of his extra mutagens, but Eskel has had no such mutations, and he’s both taller and broader than his brothers _and_ Vesemir. Lambert’s second thought is _this fucker is a Cat—_

Which is why he eloquently starts his tirade by calling the other Witcher, “You mewling, hell-hated codpiece—” (in his defence, he’d spent a lot of time trading insults with Jaskier that winter, and the bard simply didn’t care for the classic “you fucking fuck”, so Lambert had had to get creative).

To which the Cat simply raises his brows in astonishment and tries to keep his face out of head-butting range as Lambert rises on his toes to stare him down properly. His eyes are more green than yellow and much more obviously slit-pupiled. Lambert sneers, looking him up and down; the ill-begotten son of a bitch is wearing almost handsome clothes, not the black that Witchers prefer—stained or dyed with monster blood—but deep, pleasant blues and brown leather, even if they are currently splattered with gunk and guts.

“Do I know you?” he asks, cutting off Lambert’s angry tirade (which is mainly just swear-words and insults, but he was building up steam, how _dare_ this shit interrupt him!) He has a Toussaintois accent—the prick of all accents, sharp vowels and soft consonants.

“I’m a Wolf, fucker.”

The Cat scrunches up his nose. “Ah. You’ve met the alderman, I presume? In my defence, I wasn’t the one who lied, I just didn’t correct him when he mistook my medallion—”

“Fucking _Cat_ Witchers—”

“Not that this isn’t fascinating, but I’d really like a bath.”

Lambert stutters. The Cat looks at him steadily, still bent backwards over the counter but perfectly placid. As if he gets cussed out by angry Wolf Witchers all the time. Lambert’s always been told that Cats are unpredictable, their mutagens promoting heightened emotions in tense situations. Every encounter he’s ever had—not that he’s had many; most Witchers avoid Cats—has only emphasized this. Fucking Karadin and his fucking mercenary gang. But this Witcher, this _Cat_ , just stays calm in the face of his anger.

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“Given that I know just how intensely you can smell how much I stink, it should really be obvious that I’m not.” He dares to hold up his palms, all ‘I am totally innocent here and in no way a humongous, lying pile of shit’. “So, how about you let me take a bath. I’ll even pay for you to take a bath also, as an apology for impersonating one of your… esteemed brethren, and you can keep yelling at me in the bath—”

“No yelling on the premises,” an attendant squeaks.

“— _after_ the bath. How’s that sound?”

Lambert stares at him. He really doesn’t smell great, but then, he _has_ been hunting rotfiends. In his haste to berate him, Lambert had registered it only faintly, but the humans around them all keep turning their faces away. He leans back on his heels, ruminates for a moment. Then says, “Dinner, too.”

“Pardon?” The way the Cat says it makes it sound like _pardonne._ What a prick.

“You’ll buy my fucking dinner, too.”

The Cat tilts his head at him. Now that he’s no longer bending over backwards, he seems even taller; Lambert’s head barely comes up to his chin, and that’s counting the extra height from his curly hair. “Alright, then.” The Cat turns to the attendant and smiles charmingly. “Add him to my tab?”

* * *

Somehow, they do not get booted from the bath house. Possibly because the Cat pays a little extra. When Lambert asks how rotfiends paid that well, the Cat shrugs and says, “Wasn’t just here for that.” Lambert scoffs. Of course he wasn’t. Cats don’t just hunt monsters. They do all sorts of contracts, monsters, human monsters, and humans in general. (If someone ever puts a contract out on Ciri, Lambert is going to abandon Witcher neutrality and salt and burn the earth to keep her safe. She calls him _uncle_ when she’s being annoying on purpose. Lambert adores her.)

Thanks to Lambert’s dulcet tones, they are largely left to their own devices. In the dressing room, the Cat shoves his dirty clothes into the arms of an attendant—who does an admirable job of not puking when the rotfiend… _slime_ touches his skin—and asks Lambert for his name, completely at ease with being nude and unarmed in front of him.

“You first,” Lambert replies stubbornly, undressing much more slowly. He wants a knife at hand while the Cat is still within reach of his weapons.

The Cat rolls his eyes. “I’m Aiden. Of Beauclair.”

“Fucking called it.” Toussaintois prick.

“What was that?”

“I’m Lambert. Of Lyria.” He fucking dares Aiden to say anything about it. Lambert had chosen the name when he was barely grown, liking the alliteration and thinking himself very clever. Mostly, it had just made people snort and ask him if he thought he was a poet in addition to being a Witcher.

Wisely, Aiden does not say anything at all.

With their clothes carried away for washing, they head for the cold-water baths first. You might think that such a thing is useless—who likes frigid baths?—but they’re thought to be quite restorative. _And_ excellent places to wash off road dust and monster blood in a hurry.

Aiden approaches the circular pool like a man heading for the gallows. Drawing heavy breaths, he says, “Right. Nothing to it,” and starts the slow and clearly quite pained descent into the pool, whining all the way. Lambert doesn’t particularly like cold baths either, but there are worse things. Melitele, what a ponce. The Cat complains _every single minute of it._

The second he’s clean enough for the warmer pool, he flings himself out of the water, sprinting through the bath house fully naked and not caring even a little bit about the people who eye his scars and his… freely bobbing _attributes_. Lambert follows at a much more sedated pace, glaring at anyone who looks at him. Witchers aren’t shy, as a general rule. He still doesn’t want people ogling him in a fucking bath house.

The warm baths are in a richly decorated part of the bath house. Here, there are dozens of murals on the walls, each in its own little niche, colourful and artful. Big, circular windows allow for the fading light to pour in, casting shadows on the floor, and a hush has fallen over the room, giving it an almost sacred air. 

Already submerged up to his chest in one of the smaller, more private pools, Aiden ignores Lambert as he eyes the Cat contemplatively. It’s easier to take stock of him now that Lambert isn’t literally in his face, and Lambert quietly makes note of his looks; bronze-tinted, scarred skin, brown, curling hair. A nick in his left eyebrow, and another one right above his lip, almost covered by his moustache. Long limbs, not nearly as broad as the Wolf Witchers, but not slim either. Just… lithe, if that’s the right word. A bit like Geralt’s bard, except not at all. If Jaskier is a brawny tom cat, then Aiden is a sleek lion.

When Lambert hasn’t passive-aggressively splashed water at him in a few minutes, Aiden looks up. Something tells Lambert not to look away, so he stares back, utterly still. If his hair could puff up like an annoyed wolf’s, it would. Aiden seems to pick up on this—at least he smiles like he does.

But what he says next is not what Lambert expects. “See something you like?”

Lambert blinks. “ _What_.”

“Staring at me in the bath like that… if I didn’t know you wanted to fuck me up, I’d say you wanted to simply fuck me—”

“It’s the _former_ ,” Lambert snaps and sets to washing.

If he doesn’t look at Aiden after that, it’s entirely coincidental. His hair needs all his attention, okay. His curls _will_ find a way to become sentient if he doesn’t force them into submission during bath time.

He looks up only once, and that’s because he can feel Aiden watching him. When their eyes meet, Aiden smiles slow and irritating, and Lambert has no choice but to throw the soap at his stupid head.

* * *

When he tells his brothers and the other inhabitants of Kaer Morhen about the encounter the next winter, Geralt, Eskel, and Coën all agree with him and disparage the very existence of Cat Witchers. Lambert feels entirely vindicated. 

But then Jaskier goes, “Wait—Aiden of Beauclair? Oh, he _is_ a bit sexy, isn’t he?”

Which makes Geralt go, “What,” in a very dangerous kind of voice, and they all abandon the room after that, pushing and shoving without mercy because some things a Witcher just doesn’t need to see his brother do to his bard lover. 

(The well-fucked look on Jaskier’s face the next day is bad enough).

* * *

Lambert doesn’t think about Aiden at all the next year.

Except when he remembers Jaskier’s comment. Which is only sometimes. Not a lot.

And then he meets Aiden again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi, i'm on[tumblr](https://purpurred.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw:  
> \- discussion of sex  
> \- sex work  
> \- Lambert being a grumpy little shit

Lambert is in Temeria when he spots Aiden again. The Cat is sitting in the corner of a semi-enclosed courtyard, almost entirely hidden as he sips his beer and watches the people making merry across the yard. He seems relaxed, if a little impatient, judging by the way he taps his fingers against the table.

Lambert doesn’t _have_ to acknowledge him. He could keep riding by. The sweltering summer heat makes the city unbearable, even after sunset and especially in the western quarter where the taverns are practically on top of each other and people swarm like locusts. Lambert _could_ pass by and get back to the inn where a cool bath awaits him.

But Horse has already paused and is now looking longingly at the horse trough. Lambert doesn’t care about much, but he does care about Horse. She’s a sweeter mount than he deserves. The least he can do is let her have a break. (Even if she’s technically already had a break while he haggled over payment for his last job, just fifteen minutes ago).

So he hobbles her by the trough, buys his own beer (the prices in Maribor are _outrageous_ , Melitele’s tits), and plonks down at Aiden’s table before the other Witcher has a chance to tell him to piss off.

And then doesn’t talk to him, because Lambert doesn’t actually know what to say to him. This is as far as his plan goes.

For his part, Aiden just raises his brows at him. He mutters, “Do I owe you money or something?”, and keeps sipping his beer, casually dismissing Lambert’s presence at his table. It’s a strange feeling; on one hand, it rankles, because Lambert didn’t come over here just to be relegated to the level of a breathing wall-fixture; on the other, it feels… not bad. Like he’s just some guy. Not a Witcher, not a threat. An annoyance, perhaps, but nothing to be overly worried about.

Lambert shrugs. “Unless you’re pretending to be a Wolf again—”

“I wasn’t pretending anything, I just let the alderman _assume_ —”

“That’s the same as pretending, innit?”

“Is not.”

“Is, too.”

Aiden tilts his head at him, eyes narrowed. And then, like sunshine breaking through clouds, he laughs. A sharp, slightly disbelieving bark, but it softens his frown. He’s got laugh lines fanning out from his eyes, Lambert notes. And sharper eyeteeth than even Wolf Witchers. And he scrunches his beaky nose when he laughs.

“You here on a job? Or just seeing the sights?” Aiden asks.

“Job.”

“Hm, good thing I wasn’t here for that kind of job then, or you’d have been too late. Again.”

“Fuck off.” Lambert _will not_ laugh. Fucking Cat. “What’re you doing here?”

Aiden blinks. “Here, as in ‘on the Path’ or here as in ‘this exact location’?” When Lambert says the latter, there’s a beat of silence before the answer. “You do know which street this is, right?”

“It’s Grove—oh. Right.” Grove Street—though that is the polite name. _Grope Street_. And not just any Grove Street, but Grove Street in Maribor. Also known as Main Street of Pleasure in Temeria. Right. _Right_. Lambert glances around; a good many of the people _are_ dressed like working girls, and high-end ones, too, in light, airy dresses that strategically bare their arms and legs. They wear their hair in simple braids, something that can either easily be kept out of their faces or easily untied, depending on the desires of their patrons. At loss of what else to say (and feeling a little stupid), Lambert asks, “You made your pick yet?” Aiden nods. “Then what’re you doing sitting here?”

“Sable is… sought after.”

“She a courtesan or something?”

“ _He_ is.”

Lambert pauses. “Oh. Right.” It shouldn’t be a surprise that Aiden would pick a male whore. He _did_ hit on Lambert when they first met—though that could be put down to trying to disorient Lambert rather than actual intent. But then, _Jaskier_ had said that Aiden was sexy in that _tone._ Like he wasn’t just talking about his looks. Feeling oddly wrong-footed, Lambert blurts, “That’s got to be expensive.”

Aiden shrugs. “Got paid well on my last job. And it’s worth it.”

He shouldn’t ask. It’s not his business, and he doesn’t actually care, but damn it all: “How so? He got a magic cock or something?”

“Oh, several.” Aiden grins; his slit pupils are widening as he warms to the subject. “Given that his is detachable and he’s got quite the collection. But that’s not—why do you want to know, anyway? You thinking of splurging?”

“Just making conversation,” Lambert mutters. “Don’t get worked up.”

Aiden rolls his eyes. “With that attitude, you must have a ton of friends.”

“Fuck off.”

“Charmer.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish. _Calm down,_ Wolf, I don’t mean nothing by it, no need to growl at me.”

He drinks down the last of his beer; it leaves a bit of foam in his moustache, which he gracefully wipes away. He’s got less scruff than the last time Lambert saw him, like he shaved and groomed just for this encounter. Even his hair has been trimmed, no longer wavy but curly instead. He looks like a man about to meet his lover, not a paid courtesan. Though perhaps… the difference isn’t so big, with a courtesan. Lambert wouldn’t know. He’s never had money for a courtesan.

“You going to answer or what?”

“And I repeat, why do you want to know?”

Lambert doesn’t even know why himself. So he diverts the question: “Just seems a waste, is all. Lots of working boys that can fuck the same, I reckon.”

Very slowly and annoyingly, Aiden grins. “Sure. You’ve never been with a courtesan, have you? Gods, didn’t think you could scowl harder, I don’t mean it like an insult. I know most Witchers haven’t, I’m not disparaging you. Sable is just…” He looks away from Lambert. Fiddles with his empty mug. “He’s good at pretending. The best, really.”

Lambert laughs in disbelief. “You so bad in bed that—”

“He’s good at pretending he loves me.”

Lambert stutters to a stop. He doesn’t know how to react to that—what even is the appropriate way to react to that? Does he laugh it off? Make some asinine comment that (hopefully) will make Aiden roll his eyes and call him a prick? Nod and say nothing?

Because Lambert is the worst at social interactions (and he’s well aware of this), he ends up laughing in a way that is definitely too mocking and if Aiden punches him in the face, he’ll thoroughly deserve it. “And you believe him?”

Aiden doesn’t punch him, even if he does look annoyed. But he also looks pitying, and that’s much worse. “Of course not. I know I’m paying him. But it’s… nice to pretend. Nice that—”

Whatever else is nice about Sable, Lambert never finds out. At that moment, Aiden sits up straight and fixes his eyes on a tall man with exceptionally curly hair walking towards them. He’s sharp-featured and keen-eyed, and through his sheer shirt, the scars beneath his pectorals are visible. He’s… not unpleasant to look at. Not at all. (Why does Lambert’s throat close up at admitting that?)

Aiden tilts his head up hopefully.

But the courtesan says, “My Lady will stay through the night. I’m sorry, darling. Another time?”

“Of course,” Aiden says. Despite his attempted nonchalance, there are little lines of stress bracketing his eyes. “Thank you for telling me, Sable.” As Sable disappears back the way he’d come from, Aiden forces a smile and says, “I am going to get _spectacularly_ drunk. If I pay, will you join me?”

And that’s how Lambert and Aiden become friends.

* * *

Lambert learns a lot about Aiden that night. He learns even more with every time he runs into him on the Path—which happens suspiciously often. He once asks if Aiden is following him, and Aiden tells him, “Ah, yes. You’ve foiled my masterplan,” in a tone that is so dry and deadpan that Lambert has no choice but to tackle him for being a shithead.

He learns that Aiden is an affectionate drunk. He laughs at Lambert’s jokes—even the ones he knows are particularly bad and would get him groans and grimaces at home. When stumbling back to the inn, he leans their shoulders together, and when Lambert doesn’t push him away, Aiden starts touching him to get his attention, a press of knuckles against his arm or bumping their feet together.

He learns that Aiden likes curly hair. Not because he tells him in so many words, but because Aiden’s eyes snag on every curly-haired individual in their path. Maybe that’s how Sable attracted him in the beginning. When Lambert finally asks, Aiden refuses to admit it until Lambert admits to a preference of his own. “I’m a Witcher, I can’t afford preferences,” he says, but Aiden won’t hear of it. He finally wears Lambert down enough that he blurts, “Green eyes.” (For some reason, he can’t quite meet Aiden’s eyes after that.)

He learns to recognize Aiden by his horse, a prissy, dappled gelding called Danzar. Gods, what a nightmare that beast is, you’d think it still had its balls. Unless Aiden’s the one leading it, it won’t walk through puddles, won’t walk through the dappled shadows cast by tree branches, won’t tolerate people walking around him. Don’t even _think_ of using a different brush than usual. Even Geralt’s Roach is less uptight. She will at least allow herself to be bribed with food. Danzar will take the food and spit it at you—and then demand you give it back, because it actually tasted very nice, and he _wants it now._

He learns that Aiden is kind. That he’ll happily share his space and money with Lambert, even when Lambert can’t pay him back and Aiden doesn’t owe him anything. He laughs easily; not always truly, but when it’s true, something loosens in Lambert’s chest. He can also be petty; gods help you if you stiff him on a job. Not the monster jobs, but the assassinations. “I just had to kill the guy, not to keep quiet about it,” Aiden says. And that’s how Rivia and Lyria almost separate into two kingdoms once more.

Melitele help him, but Lambert actually likes his company.

* * *

Sometimes, he thinks about what Jaskier said. _A bit sexy, isn’t he?_ And he thinks of Aiden’s, “Curls are just… neat, yeah? To pet. To _pull on_ ,” in that stupid fucking accent. He thinks of how Aiden had once rested his chin on top of Lambert’s head, just to be annoying, and how tiny Lambert had felt next to him. He thinks of how Aiden isn’t afraid to bite back, to joke, to laugh in his presence. 

That winter at Kaer Morhen, he asks Jaskier, “What’s he like?”

“What’s who like?” Jaskier asks distractedly. “Would pentameter be better for this, or hexameter—”

“What’s Aiden like? In bed?”

 _That_ gets Jaskier’s attention. “How, prithee, would I know?”

“You _said_ —”

“That he was gorgeous, which he is. But I don’t actually know him well.” He tilts his head at Lambert, eyes shrewd. “Why—”

“I have to be somewhere else now.” He doesn’t. But when Jaskier looks at you like that, you run. (Besides, if he doesn’t know what Aiden _is like,_ then Lambert doesn’t have anything else to talk to him about.)

* * *

Lambert tells himself to stop thinking about it. He doesn’t even know why it occupies his thoughts. He’s certainly never wondered about the intimate details of Coën’s love-life, actively tries to avoid Geralt’s, and Eskel doesn’t have one (well, in a way he does; he’s quite a favourite amongst succubi, but he doesn’t go to them for sex, only goes to be drained of the need to have it. A Witcher’s heightened sex drive can be an annoyance to them all, but to Eskel it’s like a curse). If Vesemir does, he doesn’t tell the younger Wolves about it, thank Melitele for small favours.

Maybe it’s because Aiden is so… new, in a way. Coën, Geralt, Eskel… they’re his family, his friends. He rubs elbows with them every winter, knows what they’re like and what they like. They just don’t have secrets about their having sex. Geralt certainly doesn’t care to have Jaskier lower his voice when they fuck in the keep, not unless Ciri is down the hall. Coën’s talked about some of his encounters the way men do amongst each other. Blunt, a little awed when there was something he really liked.

And sure, Aiden and he _have_ talked about sex. Hard not to, when the second time you meet is while waiting for a courtesan. But there’s a difference between knowing what Aiden likes, and what _he’s_ like. Lambert just likes knowing things.

It’s really fucking annoying not knowing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw:  
> \- Lambert's self-destructive tendencies  
> \- Lambert's complicated relationship to... everything, really  
> \- sex  
> \- having sex while thinking about someone else having sex  
> \- emotions  
> \- oh god, Lambert is having an emotion, someone help him  
> \- not giving a single shit about the canon timeline and political situation beyond the absolute basics

Lambert doesn’t like sorceresses, or sorcerers, or magicians of any kind. He’s got too many memories of one of them standing over him as he shook and cried through a new round of mutagens and his brothers died around him. They’d dispassionately ordered the older Witchers to “see to it” and left him to live or die. He doesn’t always get along with Vesemir, but at least half the reason that he’d lived had been because of the old man. He hasn’t hated him in a long time, and certainly never quite the way he still does mages.

His dislike has caused some… tensions, at Kaer Morhen, now that they’ve got witches living with them in winter. Witches who most certainly aren’t leaving anytime soon. In fact, Lambert should probably thank his lucky stars that Triss Merigold hasn’t snapped and murdered him yet. He gets along _slightly_ better with Yennefer, but that’s mainly because she scares him. Because he is _sane._ Unlike Geralt—and Jaskier, now that he and Yen have buried the hatchet and become co-conspirators. 

So, Lambert doesn’t like sorceresses. But as Coën likes to tell him, he’s also a goddamn hypocrite.

Unlike Geralt who seems to trip into monogamy when he least expects it and most needs it, Lambert generally deals with sex the way most Witchers do: professionals. Sometimes a particularly rebellious widow with experience under her belt and no other, more proper way to use it. And then there’s Keira Metz, a sorceress.

In his defence, he didn’t set out to become her… whatever the fuck he is to her. Experiment? Sex toy on legs? A bad habit? He’d have treated her just as he does Yennefer and Merigold if the first thing she’d said to him hadn’t been, “You’re just a dumpling soup of regret, aren’t you? Come to my boudoir, I’ve uses for you.”

And he’d gone.

No matter what Coën says, Lambert doesn’t actually _like_ her, so it’s not _that_ hypocritical. Keira knows this. He’s pretty sure that that little fact actually sweetens the pot for her. She’s not cruel. She’s not nice either. She _is_ some kind of sadist, but that’s another thing entirely. The mixture of self-hate and spite he feels whenever they sleep together—easily gleaned from his thoughts, which Keira reads without even an ounce of guile—seems to fuel her. He could say stop anytime, but he doesn’t.

Coën says he’s a fool. Geralt seems to understands. And Vesemir blames himself, silently.

* * *

The next time he meets Keira in Vizima, he gets on his hands and knees and offers himself up, closes his eyes and faces away. Keira shrugs and gets out her tools.

While she fucks him, he wonders how Aiden has sex with Sable. He’d said that Sable has a ‘magical’ collection of cocks; for Aiden to know that, he’d have to be on the receiving end, right? Or maybe they play around a bit first, getting Aiden off before making love face to face, Aiden on top and sliding into Sable’s welcoming body. He probably pulls Sable’s hair. He _definitely_ pulls Sable’s hair. Does he ignore the scent of other people on Sable’s skin, or does he breathe it in? Does Aiden kiss him? He must; or else the illusion of love would break, wouldn’t it? If your lover turned their face away—

When it’s over and Lambert is trying to nap, Keira taps his forehead and goes, “Whole forest in here. So tangled. So _dense._ ”

He grunts. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but this had been oddly unfulfilling, and he’d like to sleep it off. Did she get off? He didn’t notice. It’s not always about that for Keira, so he doesn’t feel too bad. Sometimes, he thinks she’d be more exhilarated picking his insides apart while he was still alive to feel it than she is sleeping with him.

* * *

And yet, he comes back while he’s still in the city. What? It’s free and Keira likes putting him to use. Lambert’s got a lot of energy to burn, he might as well get it out of his system while he can. (And if his inner Coën sighs and slaps him upside the head for being unnecessarily bone-headed… Keira probably finds that funny, too.)

But then he walks into Keira’s apartments and finds Aiden sitting across from her, and to be perfectly honest, he almost throws himself out the window.

“What are you doing here?” he barks. Gods, has it been this hot all day? Has Keira been experimenting with heat spells again? He’s _dying_ from heat. 

“Hello to you, too, Wolf,” Aiden says, “and I’d like to know that myself. Feeling like explaining yet, sorceress?”

“Oh, I just had to meet you!” she says. “Lambert, sit here.”

He perches uneasily on the indicated chair, torn between looking at Aiden and staring into the table like he’s hoping to become part of it. Embarrassment, hot and vicious, crawls up his throat. He’s never been ashamed of what he and Keira do before. It’s not healthy—he’s not stupid enough to think that it is—but it’s his choice, and he’s _fine_. But for Aiden to see this… Aiden, who pays for a courtesan to feign love for him, while Lambert… well. Does _this_.

While Keira prattles on—it takes her a while to get to the point, needing to first spin a tale that doesn’t actually tell you anything and just leaves you confused—Lambert chances a look at Aiden. Feeling his eyes, Aiden meets his gaze, brows raised in question. He has a new scar across his brow, almost right on top of the other, only distinguished by being slightly wonkier and freshly healed. He looks good, healthy. His blue coat has road dust on it; he must have only just arrived in the city—

“—since Lamby missed you so much—”

“ _What_ ,” Lambert snaps. This isn’t happening. _What the fuck is happening_. “No, I didn’t.”

“That’s flattering,” Aiden says sarcastically.

“—and frankly, it’s becoming depressing rather than delicious how mopey he is, so here you go.” He waves at them. “Now fuck off.”

“ _What are you doing!_ ” Lambert whisper-screeches at her. Aiden just laughs uproariously. Fucker. Fucker with his fucking nose crinkle.

* * *

“That was so sweet.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“Didn’t know you cared—”

“Shut up! I didn’t miss your stupid face, Keira is a _liar_ —”

“I missed you.”

Lambert barely avoids walking into a wall. He says, “What?” a little too fast and breathlessly. Gods, that’s embarrassing.

Aiden wiggles his head, shoulders, and arm, an odd, charming sort of full-body shrug. “I like you. You’re good company. Bit of a prick, but funny. Path’s dull without you.”

Lambert’s face feels very warm. Not knowing what else to do, he punches Aiden in the shoulder. Aiden, growling playfully, bumps him back, and they wrestle as they walk, slapping and prodding and pinching like boys.

“You’re a good man, Wolf—”

“Stuff it.”

“And a good friend—”

Lambert kisses him.

He immediately tears himself away; the sound of their lips parting is loud in the sudden silence, as are the surprised heaving of their breaths. Aiden is staring at him. His lips look soft.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Lambert says and hurries up the street. Not fast enough to leave Aiden in the dust, mind. But fast enough that he has to jog to follow. (Though not for long, because his legs are _long_.) 

“Alright,” he says. A beat, and then, “You’re not used to people who aren’t your brothers caring about you, are you?”

This is exactly why Lambert hadn’t wanted Aiden to know about Keira. “We can’t all be as well-adjusted as you—”

Aiden laughs harshly. “Lambert, I pay for someone to pretend they love me. If you call that well-adjusted—Lambert, would you stop!” He pulls Lambert around, forces him to look at him by tilting his head up with his hand on Lambert’s face. Well, perhaps ‘force’ is the wrong word. ‘Encourages’, maybe. ‘Pleads without words’. “The kindness Sable shows me… that I _pay_ for him to show me, it’s all I’ve got. Cats aren’t—I don’t have _anyone_ _else_. Except… except maybe you. So I’m not judging what you with Keira. I _wouldn’t_. We all do what we have to do to stay sane, my friend.”

Around them, the street is quiet. They’ve made good time from Keira’s apartments in the middle of town and have reached the boarding houses that are thoughtfully located away from the noise of the Tavern Quarter. With night fallen and the stars out, Aiden and Lambert might as well be standing on a desolate island rather than in the middle of the street.

Lambert has never been good at saying sorry. He’s not sure where he got that from; maybe the same place that Geralt did. It’s not from Vesemir, who actually has the guts to admit he’s wrong. Eskel takes after him, lucky bastard.

When the words won’t come, Lambert sighs in frustration. He bonks their foreheads together, getting on his tiptoes and pulling Aiden down with firm, slightly unsteady hands. “You’re my friend, too,” he admits. “You have me.”

When the Wolves hug each other, it’s half back-slap, half-body slam, at least when they meet in public. At Kaer Morhen, now that it’s no longer churning out more broken boys for the world to hate, it’s wilder, but softer, too. The memories of piling on his brothers and Vesemir in front of the fire are almost enough to keep other, less pleasant memories at bay these days, though there are still corners of the keep that make him seize up and fight not to flee. 

When Aiden hugs him, it’s tentative. When Lambert doesn’t pull away, he pulls him closer, tucks Lambert’s head into his shoulder and enfolds him completely, keeping the world at bay. His jacket smells like sweat and horse and dust, but Aiden himself smells of summer. And for the first time since he came to Vizima, Lambert feels at peace.

However, he’s also still Lambert, so he breaks the peace by saying, “The street is kind of an odd place for cuddling.”

Aiden snorts into his hair. “Feel free to stop clutching at my jacket any moment, then.”

“I’m not clutching at your jacket,” Lambert mutters and clutches harder.

“I see. You’re not snuffling at my shirt either, then?”

“Outrageous lies.”

Aiden gently yanks on his hair for that. Rubs soothingly at his scalp when Lambert grumbles, and then just leaves his hand there. The hug has definitely gone on too long. If anyone were to come into the street and see two Witchers hugging like this… well, nothing awful would probably happen, but who knows what kind of rumours would be spread about… _about something_. (Not that anything ever seems to happen when Geralt and Jaskier get overheard or seen by humans, but you never know.)

He nuzzles his face into Aiden’s neck, seeking the clean scent of his skin. By accident—it _is_ an accident, be quiet, Imaginary Coën—his mouth grazes his skin. Before Lambert can panic and make another scene, Aiden pulls him closer and rubs his nose against his hair.

“I can _hear_ you overthinking.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of that.”

“What, thinking?”

Lambert growls and Aiden darts away, laughing. He is the _worst_. Why are they friends again? 

Oh, right. Because Lambert accosted him in a bathhouse. And in front of a brothel. Honestly, friendship is the _least_ Aiden deserves from him. So Lambert decides to be a good friend. Aiden will _never_ be alone again.

* * *

Thus, they end up travelling together, parting just to come back to each other. The Path doesn’t require it. In fact, were they two Wolves, the Path would be exceptionally unsuited for it. The job rarely ever calls for the expertise of two Witchers—and the pay _certainly_ doesn’t go up, leaving them short-handed.

But they are Wolf and Cat, so while Lambert kills one kind of monsters, Aiden kills another. Lambert trusts him implicitly; Aiden has his own kind of code that he sticks to, and not a single one of his targets are the kind of people that anyone would risk their lives to save—at least not outside a professional capacity. Sure, assassinations are a grey and murky business, but there are knights with less integrity than Aiden, so Lambert doesn’t give two shits. So what that he’s a Cat. He’s _Aiden_.

It is during that year’s travels that he learns that Aiden doesn’t go back to his school for winter. “It’s not like we have a keep, not since the last purge,” he says. “And even if we did, I wouldn’t go back. We aren’t brothers like you Wolves. Thank god, or I’d have to get along with them. Or at least fake it.”

“Where do you go then, in winter?”

“South.”

Lambert blinks. “South, where? You know an inn that’ll take you for next to nothing—No. Tell me you don’t cross the fucking border into Nilfgaard? Are you _insane_ —”

* * *

“Aiden goes to Nilfgaard in winter, like an suicidally stupid person,” Lambert growls. Beside him, Vesemir _hmm_ s. They’re in the kitchen, pickling vegetables and bottling spirits. “Can you believe it? Crossing the border despite the risks? Fucking idiot, I can’t believe—”

“Lambert,” Vesemir interrupts, “I like to hear of your year, but this is the twentieth fucking time that you’ve complained about the Cat and his winter-habits. Would you please just invite the lad to join us next year? Melitele’s tits, get it together, boy.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's probably gonna be just one more chapter after this! 
> 
> content in this chapter:  
> \- swearing  
> \- dubious fishing practices  
> \- witcher puppy pile  
> \- the theme "is thinking about kissing ur friend gay? asking for a friend"  
> \- Geralt having a domesticity kink  
> \- Lambert discovering that HE has a domesticity kink too  
> \- Let Aiden & Lambert hug 2K21.. or whatever year it is in Witcher world

After his talk with Vesemir, Lambert grabs a bag of homemade bombs and retreats to the lake for a while. _Not_ because he’s feeling vulnerable, _Coën_. He just needs some alone time, and if they want any fish, he’ll have to get them now while the snows aren’t too heavy and the ice not too thick.

He blows a couple of holes in the ice. Catches quite a lot of fish, even a few trout, which will make Ciri happy. Feels the crushing weight of Vesemir _knowing_ that Lambert is worried about Aiden, which feels like Vesemir knowing entirely too much about Lambert’s mental state. Gets in a fight with a badger. Loses the fight to the badger. Sulks because he can’t just blow up the badger (well, he _can,_ but Eskel would _know_ , and his disappointment would be unbearable).

A few days later, he returns to the keep, fish in tow. After they’ve been cleaned and stored away, he bathes and hurries to the great hall, where the Witcher-pile in front of the fire usually takes place. To get a good spot, he has to throw a few elbows, snarl a little, duck a cuff from Geralt for being a little shit. He manages to get a good spot between Eskel and Jaskier. Surrounded by the warmth and smell of his family, with Vesemir’s knowing eyes turned away, he can finally breathe a little easier. He rests his legs on Eskel’s broad back and nudges Jaskier with his head until Jaskier slings his arm over Lambert’s chest, whining about not having both hands free to comb through Geralt’s hair. Which: too bad. Geralt has Jaskier the rest of the year, he can damn well share him when they stay for the winter.

Wherever Aiden is, he better be alright.

He will be part of this, next year. Lambert will make certain of it.

* * *

“There will be some ground rules for next year,” Lambert dictates a few days later to his (forcibly) assembled family members. “You _will_ make Aiden feel welcome, _or else._ And you—” he points to Jaskier, who blinks innocently at him, like a _liar_ “—will not corner him for ‘research’, and you—” he points to Geralt, who curls his lip “—will not brood at him, and—”

He keeps going for a while. It is dubious as to whether his family members are truly listening to him. At least until he says, “and Coën, don’t mention You Know What—”

“What?” Jaskier cuts in, suddenly intrigued.

“ _Irrelevant_!” Lambert yells. “And _off-limits_! And not even true—”

* * *

This is the what: 

“—and did I tell you he has green eyes?”

“You mentioned, yeah.”

“Hm. Well, he does. Cat-green eyes. Not like, Witcher Cat, but cat-cat. Luminous-like.”

“Mm. And then there’s his hair.”

A beat. “What the fuck do you know about Aiden’s hair?”

“I’m guessing everything, since you’ve told me what _feels_ like everything about it. I could probably spot him in a crowd based on a single, dark, wavy hair.” Coën chuckles. “I’m looking forward to meeting your partner, Lambs.”

“What.”

“What, what?”

“My _partner_? Aiden is _not—_ ”

“Oh! Oh, shit. Uh. Well. Have you considered that maybe you _want_ him to be—”

And that’s where Lambert tackles him, because _absolutely not,_ what the fuck, Coën? Aiden is his _friend._ His very handsome friend. Whom Lambert had once kissed in a panic. And whom Lambert maybe, kind of wanted to kiss again. To make Aiden feel welcome. Nothing else. He’s definitely not Lambert’s _partner_.

Fuck, if Eskel and Geralt get that stupid idea in their heads, too, Lambert will probably need to throw himself out of a window. Or get in a barrel and ask Coën to push him down the Trail, that’ll kill him for sure and save him from his brothers’ enquiries. And if Jaskier gets wind of this—

Oh, gods. Best not to think of that.

* * *

So, as stated, Lambert doesn’t want Aiden like that.

And yet, for the rest of winter, one thought haunts him. It’s not the more pressing _how will I introduce Aiden to a bunch of Wolves who definitely have Opinions about him being a Cat_ , or even _what if he doesn’t want to come?_ The latter is never even a blip in his mind. Aiden _will_ want to come. There’s no doubt about that.

No, the thought that haunts Lambert and intrudes when he least expects it is some variance of _hey, remember how you kissed Aiden?_

He’s just minding his own business one day and suddenly: _were Aiden’s lips really as soft as they’d looked, after?_ That brief moment of distraction allows Eskel to indulge in one of his favourite past times: tackle his brothers to remind them of all the shit they’ve put him through, and payback is _whenever Eskel feels like it_. Or the day Lambert is seasoning fowl in the kitchen and suddenly gets bamboozled by the stray _you_ _never got to really taste him, or if you did, you can’t remember._ He ends up putting so much pepper in the food that Yennefer, Jaskier, and Ciri are all in raptures at supper, but the Witchers fight not to cough and tear up, _because that’s too spicy, damn it._ Or when he’s trying to get in a good wank before bedtime and his brain whites out and goes _remember how it sounded when you kissed him?_

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Lambert is just trying to get through winter without the following: fighting with his brothers (at least where Vesemir can see and give them The Look); getting murdered by Yennefer for saying something about the ethics of mages (though he’d both be right _and_ deserve to get lightly maimed for being an annoying shit); teaching Ciri swears in Geralt’s hearing (look, Eskel is the sweet uncle, Lambert gets to be the fun uncle); and getting cornered by Jaskier for a ‘talk’ (read: interrogation. He needs inspiration for his songs, he says. Don’t trust Jaskier, Lambert says. Anything you say can and will be used against you.) Point is, all those dumb thoughts are inconvenient. 

Which is exactly what he tells Coën. Or, well, angrily blurts out at Coën when Coën asks him why he’s looking particularly constipated. Lambert growls, “Fuck Aiden for being kissable. Fucking green-eyed menace. And fuck you.”

Coën says, “Is there something you want to talk about?” and then has the audacity to deny Lambert alcohol. “If you can face a rabid griffin sober, then you can face this conversation sober, too.”

(That resolve lasts about one hour and fourteen minutes, which is the duration of Lambert’s _first_ angry ramble. It would’ve been longer if Coën hadn’t suddenly gone looking for the White Gull.) (He still refuses to give Lambert any though. “I deserve it more,” he says. Lambert doesn’t like his tone.)

“—so in conclusion, he’s obviously trying to sabotage me.”

“By being fuckable.”

“Mm. That prick.”

“That Vesemir invited for next year after you continuously whined at him.”

He punches Coën in the arm. “Wasn’t whining. Was just complaining. ‘Cause Aiden’s an idiot. He—”

“Goes south for the winter. Yes, you told me. Repeatedly.”

“What kind of stupid bastard goes _south_ in these times. Aiden, that’s who.”

* * *

Thoughts of kissing Aiden or touching him or pleasing him or making him smile are inconvenient. But they have _nothing_ on the realization that strikes him the day he gets stuck in the library with Geralt and Jaskier. Well, not ‘gets stuck’ as in ‘can’t leave’, but as in ‘he was there first and he is not going to move just because Geralt think domesticity is best done where others can witness it’.

Lambert’s always loved the library, from the smell to the old armchairs with imprints of hundreds of butts. He may not be as smart as Geralt or as sensitive as Eskel, but he’s not stupid either, and he likes stories. Of all the Witchers, Lambert is the one Jaskier seeks out to when trying for more serious lyrics.

It starts out like that; Jaskier testing out poetic meters, Lambert pitching in with his opinion. Geralt finds them after a while and sits down, too. He’s not really participating, but not ignoring them either, just doing his own thing. At one point, he even naps.

But his ankle is hooked around Jaskier’s, and his hand rests on the arm of Jaskier’s chair rather than that of his own. When Jaskier’s laughs, Geralt turns toward him, even in the middle of his nap. It feels somehow obscene to witness, even though there is, logically, _nothing_ obscene about it. Lambert has long been aware of how Geralt has changed since he met Jaskier, and Yen, and Ciri, too; from the way he wears his hair at the Keep—using a dumb headband he’d also used in his youth, which has no function beyond Geralt liking it—to the way he holds his shoulders, or even how he talks and talks and talks, when the mood strikes him. He’s _at ease_. Jaskier is part of that.

Lambert wants that for Aiden. He wants him to feel like that, and he wants to be part of what makes him feel like that and wants him to turn towards Lambert the way Geralt turns towards Jaskier and—

 _Mother of FUCK_.

* * *

“Do you want to talk about it.”

“ _FUCK_.”

“Alright. I’ll tell Ciri to come hug you, yeah?”

“… Please.”

* * *

It’s not going to be a problem. Lambert is not even going to _think_ about it, that’s how much it’s not a problem. _Yes, that sentence makes complete sense! No, he’s not being hysterical!_

That spring, he rides south to meet up with Aiden. He reaches Aedirn. Then Rivia and Lyria. Then passes into bloody Toussaint. He’s officially far too far south for any peace of mind, but Aiden hasn’t appeared yet, and no one’s heard of him passing by. At least it’s only—ugh—Toussaint; it might be under Nilfgaardian rule, but it maintains a lot of autonomy and crossing the border isn’t hard at all. If he has to cross the Amell Mountains, he’s going to burn the whole range down.

Where the fuck is Aiden. _Fuck_. They should’ve run into each other by now. Has he gotten stuck on a job? Or worse? Fuck. _Shit_. What if it is worse, fuck, it’s probably worse—

He’s near the Castel Ravello vineyards, much too close to the border, when he finally finds Aiden.

He spots Danzar first; the dappled, prissy horse is giving some grooms trouble, throwing his head and stomping his hooves when they get too close. Surprisingly, he neighs at Lambert and Horse when he sees them, and even calms down enough for the grooms to catch a break. A small break, but any break is godsent when dealing with Danzar. One of the grooms looks near tears. Frustrated tears, not sad tears, but it embarrasses her enough that she has to turn away for a moment.

And then Aiden comes out of the inn across the road.

For the rest of his life, Lambert will remember that sight; how worn Aiden looks, the flyaway quality of his hair, the lines of stress around his mouth. He’ll remember how Aiden looks up, almost stumbles to a halt. How his bag slides from his shoulder and he catches it with his arm, cursing in the creole language of the Toussaintois, that stupid, tongue-twisting language that sounds like poetry from his lips. Lambert will close his eyes and breathe deep and smell the green, earthy scent of the vineyards, the faint bitterness on the wind from the wineries, and road dust and sweat.

Aiden smiles and the tension fades from his face.

Lambert throws himself off his horse and stalks toward him, demanding, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Trouble at the border,” Aiden explains, not at all put off by Lambert’s tone, not even when Lambert keeps advancing on him until they’re as close as the first time they’d met and he’d gotten in Aiden’s face. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. It’s good to see you, Lambs.”

And Lambert swore it wasn’t going to be a problem, but it’s a big fucking problem, because his chest won’t stop filling with sunshine, his heart won’t stop trembling, and warmth is rushing into his cheeks. He’s probably turning as read as his hair. It’s a problem, but he’s going to ruthlessly repress it.

The hug they share isn’t nearly as brotherly as it should be.

Neither is the way Lambert rubs his face into Aiden’s shoulder, snuffling.

(Or the way Aiden rubs his cheek against Lambert’s hair.)

“Fucking Cat.”

“Bloody wolf.”

Why is Lambert in love with this asshole.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so there's gonna be an epilogue too, i miscalculated and clearly Aiden NEEDS to meet the Kaer Morons
> 
> content:  
> \- De Nial is not just a river in Egypt  
> \- Aiden "joking counts as flirting" of Beauclair  
> \- Lambert makes a friend  
> \- or rather, Lambert is forcibly made a friend  
> \- Sable being amazing  
> \- drunken shenanigans  
> \- sex in a barn aka a literal and metaphorical roll in the hay

Because there is most emphatically _not a problem_ , Lambert is perfectly fine with going to Maribor. After all, what’s there to be bothered about. It’s just Maribor. Where he’d met Aiden again and truly become his friend. He’s got good memories of Maribor. It’s also where the man Aiden could love, if given the chance, lives. Which is fine, because Aiden deserves nice things, and Sable is part of that.

Besides, Lambert is himself one of the good things in Aiden’s life. (He thinks. He’s _pretty_ sure.) At least, Aiden had taken Lambert’s invitation—if you can call “you’re coming with me next winter and that’s final” as an invitation—to come home with him well. He’d chirped, “You taking me to meet your father? Didn’t know we were at that stage—”

“Sod off, Vesemir told me to invite you.”

“Oh, so it was his idea? The last elder Witcher of the Wolf School just went ‘you know what this place needs? A Cat Witcher. He’ll make for some good sport for my bloodthirsty pups this winter—’”

“You are now uninvited.”

Aiden had cackled.

But to get back to the main point: Lambert doesn’t have a problem with being in Maribor, because there’s not reason for him to have a problem with it, and Lambert is in _complete control_ of himself.

(If this all sounds like a heavy dose of denial, that’s because it is.)

It is, however, quite difficult to remain in denial when he’s seated on the other side of the table from Sable and getting thoroughly, shamelessly, and mercilessly trounced in multiplayer gwent by said man. The only relief is that Aiden is still out on his contract and thus not here to witness Lambert awkwardly trying to be polite—or at least slightly less dickish—to Sable.

Look, it’s not like Lambert set out to meet with him. He’s an innocent party in all this; so is Sable, if you want to get technical about it. They just happened to be in the same tavern at the same time with the same hankering to fleece a couple of other gwent players. Too bad Sable’s the only one doing any fleecing.

He’s not the kind of player that Lambert had expected him to be. A stupid expectation, and one that he could kick himself for. He’d thought that Sable would play the coquette, dazzling the other players with his beauty. But while he _is_ dazzling and beautiful, it’s more that that’s just his natural state than because he puts any effort into it. Instead, he’s just keen-eyed and quiet, more focused on the cards than on talking to his opponents.

(Also, his deck is a monster deck, which is not fucking fair).

Between turns, Lambert watches him. There’s something vaguely Jaskier-like about him; perhaps the many rings on his fingers, though they aren’t nearly as gaudy as the ones Jaskier tend to favour. Or perhaps his clothes, though again, not nearly as peacock-y as Jaskier’s. The stitching on his light tunic is intricate, and the beads are set in a lush, leafy pattern. Something tells Lambert that Sable is dressed down, but he doesn’t know why he’d say so.

One by one, the other players fall away, and with them, the onlookers, too. Sable glances up at him from under his lashes as he shuffles his deck and offers, “Care to take me on, Witcher?” His voice is raspy, pleasant.

Looking at the sorry state of his coin purse (largely empty), Lambert replies, “Not particularly.”

Sable smirks. Then, “Care to take me _on_?”

 _What_. “What.” _WHAT_.

“I said—”

“I heard you.” What the fuck. What the _fuck_. “No.”

Sable shrugs. “Fair. Not into men? Or just men like me?”

 _Didn’t use to think I was._ “Can’t afford you,” Lambert grinds out, looking away. Not that he would, if he could, no matter how handsome Sable is. Not when Lambert would spend their whole encounter thinking, _these are the hands that have touched Aiden, these are the arms that have held him, the lips he’s tasted, the eyes he probably looks into when he—_

To his surprise, Sable laughs. “I’m not working tonight.”

This whole situation is becoming more unbearable by the minute. “Still no.” This is why Lambert doesn’t do casual conversation with people he doesn’t know. He should explain that he’s not saying no because of the kind of man Sable is or because of his occupation, that’s not why, he’s not _trying_ to be rude. That’s just the way he is. But what he ends up saying is, “I’m Aiden’s friend.”

“Ai—? Oh! _Aiden_. I remember now; we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“Briefly.”

“Huh.” He leans back, runs his eyes over Lambert again in a decidedly more intimate manner than before. Especially his hair gets an extra glance. “ _Huh_.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” _Good work on the politeness there_.

Unbothered, Sable shrugs. “It means ‘ _huh_ ’.” He tilts his head. “Care for a drink?”

Lambert should say no. Saying yes would be needlessly masochistic. Which is of course why he says yes.

It’s unclear why Sable chooses to spend his night off drinking with a caustic Witcher who can only barely keep his scathing tongue in check. “You know,” he says at one point, unprompted, “Aiden’s a sweetheart. But I don’t make lovers of my patrons, or patrons of my lovers, you know? It blurs the line. Friends of _former_ patrons, however, now that’s quite neat.”

“And you’re telling me this… _why_?”

“Just thought you might find it useful. Also, I’m a veritable fountain of wisdom and benevolence.”

“Sure, you are.”

Sable laughs. It’s an attractive laugh. Because of course it is.

That is how Aiden finds them, sitting outside on a bench and people-watching in silence. A comfortable silence, which Lambert hadn’t expected. He’d thought Sable would be more of a talker, not content with quiet. Maybe that’s for Lambert’s sake; maybe that’s just how he is. In any case, Lambert doesn’t hate being around him, which is more than he can say for most people. If it weren’t for the issue that isn’t an issue, Lambert might even say he’s enjoyed Sable’s company. (He might say he’s enjoyed it _despite_ the issue, damn him.)

Aiden glances between them, says, “You look like you’re in deep thought.” And because he’s an asshole, he adds, “Don’t hurt yourselves.”

“Worked hard to come up with that line, did you?” Sable replies. Lambert doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t know _what_ to say, sitting next to Aiden’s lover-not-lover and watching Aiden watching them softly in the low light of the night, pupils big and round. He should get up and leave, let Aiden and Sable catch up.

But Aiden sits down in the open space between them and knocks his knee against Lambert’s, and somehow, he ends up staying. It’s… not awful. (It’s so ‘not awful’ that they end up going back inside, get in a drinking competition with a woman called One-Hand Nan, get outrageously drunk, _allegedly_ cause a public disturbance involving a juggler and a donkey, escort Sable home, fall asleep on Sable’s stupidly comfortable wooden floor, get woken up at an ungodly hour by Sable demanding pierogi from the market, get breakfast while squinting mistrustfully at the sun, and finally stumble back to their own lodgings and sleep through the rest of the morning.)

(When he wakes up, Lambert has a blurry memory of Sable drunkenly going, “I’m gonna show you something. Can I?”, and then kissing Lambert deep and slow while Aiden watched, mumbling something that _sounded_ complimentary, if entirely slurred. “You get it?” That’s where the recollection ends. It’s unclear what, exactly, that had been about.)

* * *

In the autumn, Lambert finds out what Sable had been trying to teach him.

It’s a rainy day. Not soak-you-in-a-second rain, but a soft, unabating kind of rain where the sun nonetheless peeks through the dark clouds in spear-like rays. Lambert and Aiden are in the hayloft of a barn, waiting it out. Their armour is piled up neatly. They’ve spread out their blankets to keep the dry hay from stabbing them in unfortunate places and are squabbling playfully on top of them.

If you squint a bit, it _could_ be interpreted as the kind of wrestling that Lambert does with his brothers in winter. At first, that is. It quickly becomes… something very, very different. From the way he’s snapping his teeth at Aiden’s skin, to the thrill in his belly when Aiden manages to flip him on his back and pin his hands over his head. Aiden is strong, and he’s got Lambert splayed out for him.

“Surrender?” he pants.

To which Lambert demands, “ _Make me_.”

Aiden bites his shoulder. And Lambert moans, his whole body going limp.

Aiden freezes and lets go. Slowly, he raises his head to look Lambert in the eye. Their breaths seem to echo in the hayloft, and the softly-drumming rain on the roof fades away. The green of Aiden’s eyes, that haunting, luminous colour is but a slim ring around his blown, round pupils. His flicks a quick glance at Lambert’s lips, and it’s _unbearable,_ because he’s still on top of Lambert, and he’s heavy and he’s _perfect._

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers.

No. No, Lambert doesn’t want him to stop. The Nilfgaardian army could be coming down on top of them, and he still wouldn’t want Aiden to stop, would let him do whatever he wanted with the whole fucking army overhearing them. But words are hard; so he shakes his head. Tilts his head back and his hips up in offering.

It’s all very quick and messy from there.

He’s got Aiden’s teeth in his neck, leaving marks, and Aiden’s hands in his hair. Legs spread around Aiden’s hips, both of them humping desperately against each other’s hardness, Lambert feels safe, feels _wild,_ feels taken. He’s making too much noise, but he can’t stop. Not until Aiden has bitten his way from his throat to his lips, where finally, _finally,_ he kisses Lambert, quick and sharp and wanting.

Lambert kisses him back. Goes slow and deep, because it makes Aiden shiver and mewl. He think, _that’s what Sable wanted to teach me._ Then banishes the thought, because now is _not_ the time to think of Sable, not when he’s got Aiden on top of him.

His hands are on Aiden’s shoulders. Their shirts are in the way. Why are they even wearing shirts? He pulls it up clumsily, getting distracted by the skin beneath. They end up with their shirts bunched around their armpits and their pants around their thighs; from there it’s only skin and feeling, no sense, no nothing else.

Aiden licks into his mouth and holds Lambert’s thighs open for him. His moustache tickles; does Lambert’s own beard feel as good against Aiden’s skin as Aiden’s does against his? He can’t think, can’t possibly put the feel of him into words—the way the hair on their bellies catch, the feel of it against his cock. All that without even mentioning how it feels to have _Aiden’s_ cock against him, hard and smooth and _beautiful_ , at least to Lambert’s lust-addled brain.

He comes with Aiden looking at him, mouth open and voice breaking, eyes rolling back. He clutches Aiden closer, leaving indents in his cheeks. He wants to be covered by this man, covered _in_ this man. Aiden comes with a punched-out groan and Lambert drinks it from his mouth. His release splatters against Lambert’s skin; when it runs down his sides on either side of his waist, his hips, he feels almost holy. Venerated.

After, they’re both lose and sweaty, their bellies sticky. Aiden’s still panting noisily. Lambert cannot stop himself from tasting his sighs, from wanting to share his breaths. Aiden cradles his face so, so gently. Gods, the smell of him, the smell of _them._ Sweat and sex and satisfaction.

Time goes sideways once again as Aiden kisses his way down Aiden’s chest, pausing to draw his nipples into his mouth, onwards to lick the mess off his belly, and then, tortuously, suck his softening, sensitive cock clean until Lambert is whining. He doesn’t deny him though, thighs still spread wide. Whatever Aiden wants, Lambert wants to give.

It ends with the two of them naked on the blankets. They’ve cleaned themselves up—barely, because they both enjoy the… _markings_ that they’ve left on each other. Lambert, completely wiped out, collapses on top of Aiden’s chest. He’s not usually into cuddling after sex, but like fuck is he letting Aiden go now. He traces the scars on Aiden’s arms, the deep one on the back of his neck from a near-beheading that used to make him angry, but now it makes him shudder, senseless fear flooding him. He could’ve lost Aiden before he ever knew him. If he ever meets the one who tried to take Aiden’s life, Lambert will rip them limb from limb. 

Aiden winds his fingers into Lambert’s hair and croaks, “I knew that invitation to come home with you was the meet-the-parent kind.”

Lambert grumbles into the hollow between Aiden’s neck and shoulder and falls asleep.


	6. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's not much plot here, just small scenes that occurred to me as i wrote the past chapters and needed to put somewhere, so tadaa!
> 
> content:  
> \- brief sex scene  
> \- Coën having Regrets (TM)  
> \- Aiden having Regrets (TM)  
> \- non-human Jaskier 'cus i couldn't help myself

(It’s not easy right away, because of course it isn’t. Loving Aiden doesn’t cure Lambert of being allergic to anyone knowing that he has emotions; no matter how badly he wants to always be touching Aiden now, even something as simple as their shoulders bumping, everything takes on new meanings, become signs of his regard. It feels like his thoughts are written across his face, and he feels naked. Which makes him defensive. Which makes talking about it difficult. Which makes Aiden confused, which makes Lambert feel bad, which makes him even more defensive, which—

You see how it goes. They have shit to work out, and lots of starts and stops. They get there, and that’s what matters. But that’s not what this epilogue is about. These are sunshine days.)

* * *

Once, after a tumble in the forest, Aiden is petting Lambert’s hair. His appreciation for curls is so intense that it’s started to affect the way Lambert views his own bloody hair. Before, he was quietly proud of it and loudly annoyed with it (because it’s _everywhere_ , and it tangles, and it won’t stay in godsdamned place even when he ties it up), but now, whenever he runs his _own_ fingers through it, he feels the ghost of Aiden’s touch, and shivers run down his spine.

But today, there’s something different about the way Aiden touches him. Something _obvious_ , because Aiden’s not even trying to be subtle. And that ‘something’ is that he keeps holding up fallen leaves to compare them to individual strands of Lambert’s hair.

Now, there are courteous ways to express disbelief and confusion to your lover. Lambert’s “The fuck are you doing?” is not one of them, but it is very Lambert, and Aiden loves Lambert, so who cares.

Aiden grumbles, “You didn’t tell me you had red hair.” The accusation—for it _is_ an accusation—carries the tang of deep and unforgiveable betrayal.

Lambert slowly lifts his head from Aiden’s chest. “What.”

“You have hair the colour of autumn leaves on oak trees. And you _didn’t tell me._ ”

“Why would I tell you? It’s glaringly obvious!”

“You should’ve told me! I’m—oh. I didn’t tell you.”

Lambert squints. “Didn’t tell me what?”

Aiden’s outrage has disappeared, erased by embarrassment. “I, well, I, uh, there are some colours I don’t… see that well. After the Trial of the Grasses, my vision got better but it also got worse, in some respects. I’ve been thinking you had dark blond hair.”

“ _You thought I was blond?_ ”

* * *

Aiden says, “I see blue fine. In fact, I probably see it better than other people, I see the different shades more intensely, at least when they’re dark. If I see it as a lighter blue, I might be right. But it also might be pink, so.” Which explains why his clothes are all deep blue. It’s the one kind colour he _knows_ he sees right. “And your eyes?” he asks also, “What colour they really? To me, they’re pale, sort of gold?”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” Lambert mutters. Under all the attention, his chest feels big and hollow, his heartbeat echoing through his whole body like a drum. “They’re just yellow.”

Aiden kisses his nose. Which shouldn’t be allowed during a serious conversation, as it turns Lambert to helpless mush. “Like mine then.”

Lambert freezes. Stares. “Aiden… your eyes aren’t yellow.”

Aiden huffs. “I think I’d know my own eye colour, Lambchop.”

Which prompts Lambert to go hunting for something yellow, which isn’t that easy in an autumn forest—until he remembers he doesn’t have to look for a flower, he just has to look for a leaf. Which are _fucking everywhere._ His brothers must never know he tore through piles and piles of leaves looking for flowers _in the exact same colour as the leaves_.

“What colour is this?” he asks Aiden when he comes back with the brightest yellow leaf he could find.

Aiden looks at it mulishly. “Yellow.”

“Are you saying that because you know, or because that’s what you see?”

Aiden mimics him pettily, then says, “It’s pale. Just pale. Not white, but just kinda… non-coloured. Not exactly like your eyes, but that’s because they’re darker.”

“And are your eyes like my eyes?”

“No, my eyes are pure yellow—oh. Uh.”

Turns out, Aiden _can_ see yellow—just not if the thing he’s looking at is actually yellow. Those are just pale or orange-y to him. But all things green? Those he see as soft, dark yellows. In summer, the forest appears gold to him, even if he knows it’s green, even if he remembers the colours he saw as a child. And yet, he’d never put it together that his own eyes would then have to be green, too.

“In my defence, I don’t usually walk around the forest holding a mirror up to my eyes,” he whines. Then blinks. “… didn’t you tell me you liked green eyes back when—holy shit, Lambs, did you—”

“I didn’t base my like of green eyes on you!” Lambert lies.

(Another day, Aiden reduces him to pleas and shakes and wring the truth from him that he’d never had any particular preference for eye colour before he met Aiden. He’d never particularly had a preference for tall, scarred, sarcastic, loving, wonderful Witchers either, but here they are. Aiden is much too proud of this, the prick.)

* * *

When they have sex, it’s usually Aiden screwing all sense out of Lambert. Whether Lambert’s on his back with his legs locked around Aiden’s waist, shoulders, or head, or on his hands and knees making incomprehensible noises into the pillow, or—you get the gist. Aiden takes Lambert apart and Lambert loves it, but sometimes, _he_ gets to do all these things to Aiden, and that’s just as good.

The first time they switch it up, spends eons worshipping Aiden with his mouth, leaving bitemarks, kisses, and beard burn in his wake. They don’t usually have this much time, and by Melitele, will Lambert take advantage of having it now. The door between them and the rest of the world is just icing on top.

Aiden’s not good at staying still though; whereas Lambert gladly lets Aiden set the pace when he’s on top, Aiden writhes and rolls and whines when he doesn’t get his way. One day, Lambert will tie him up and take his time, take him apart. One day, but not this day. This day, he’s too keyed up, too excited by the thought that he’ll be the one to take Aiden, and so, when he’s opened him up and Aiden loses patience and puts him on his back, he lets him do it.

With awe, he watches Aiden straddle him, watches him take Lambert in hand and guide him inside him. The clench of his body, the smooth glide, Aiden’s strained panting, and Lambert’s cursing, all of it is dream-like and intense.

All he can really do is brace himself against the headboard and plant his heels on the bed.

After, as they’re cleaning up, the smells stick in Lambert’s nostrils, embeds themselves in his memory; the scent of sex and sweat, the smell of cum, Aiden’s splattered on Lambert’s belly, Lambert’s own still dripping out of Aiden and onto the floor. Lambert wants to put his hand between Aiden’s legs and rub it into his skin, into his thighs, and back into his body. But he will _not_ break first, no matter how irresistible Aiden looks.

Aiden pulls softly on his beard and says, “You’re starting to need a trim.”

“Says you,” Lambert replies, smoothing Aiden’s moustache. “This thing is the envy of circus performers everywhere.”

“Did you think that maybe I wanted it that way? I want them _dying_ with envy, crying at my door for tips to greater moustaches.”

“Maybe I want that, too; university professors and eccentric mages will be clamouring to copy my beard.”

“Why? Can they not simply imitate a random goat?”

“You little—”

At that moment, there’s a knock on the door; it swings open without as much as a by-your-leave and Coën walks through—and immediately regrets that decision. “There you are fucker, is— _OH GODS_ —” 

* * *

“I’m so sorry,” Coën keeps saying later that evening. Mostly to Aiden, which: fuck you, Coën. “I just wanted to introduce myself, I’m so, so sor—”

“It’s alright,” Aiden says gracefully. Every other moment, he has to look away or focus on his beer, lest he burst into hysterical laughter. This isn’t how you want to meet your lover’s family. He’s going to remember this for the rest of his life. In horrible, awful flashbacks that occur when he’s trying to sleep, that is (or maybe that’s just Lambert). “You couldn’t know we were… otherwise engaged.”

“But you would’ve, if you’d waited after knocking,” Lambert mutters. He’s going to glare Coën into another dimension, so help him, Melitele.

“You were talking about _facial hair_ ,” Coën stresses. He waves his hands, “Who stands around talking about facial hair in the nude!”

“Get over yourself, you sound like a scandalized maiden aunt.”

Coën gasps in outrage. Then turns to Aiden, “Did he ever tell you how high he shrieked when he walked in on Jaskier and Geralt—”

“ _I didn’t shriek!_ ”

(He’d shrieked. He’d reached a very… particularly pitch. The wolves around Kaer Morhen had howled at the Keep for days, outraged by the noise. Which of course had all the Witchers passive-aggressively howling back. Jaskier had written a paper on it—which got rejected, because everyone thought he was taking the piss.)

* * *

So that’s how Aiden meets Coën. After the whole ‘I’ve seen you naked with my best friend’s cum literally dripping down your thighs, but let us please, please, _please_ forget about that’ thing, they get along like a house on fire. It helps that Coën isn’t quite as averse to non-Wolf Witchers as the rest of Lambert’s family usually are. (Geralt would say that they’re only averse to the ‘shitheads’, which include Bears, Vipers, and Cats and leaves… the Griffins as the one tolerable Witcher school outside their own. Not a ringing endorsement.) Once they find out their fighting styles are more alike than Coën’s and Lambert’s, they’re off in their own little world.

(Lambert’s heart definitely doesn’t grow lighter at that. His family’s acknowledgement of Aiden doesn’t matter. (Except it does.))

Between Coën and Lambert, they manage to relay all Aiden needs to know to survive a winter at Kaer Morhen. _Don’t trust Jaskier when he says he just want to pick your brain, you_ will _regret it; always check with an adult when Ciri says she’s been allowed to do something dubious and unsupervised; don’t start a fight with any sorceresses unless you’re stupid (screw you, Coën!); and lastly…_

“Did anyone guess changeling yet?” Aiden asks.

“Yup. Doppler, too.”

“Fuck. How can you _not_ know what Jaskier is?”

“First of, this is clearly Geralt’s fault,” Lambert replies. “Who even brings a bard of indeterminate species to a Witcher keep?”

“Second of,” Coën continues, “If he’d just pretended to know, then Jaskier would’ve told the rest of us, and we could’ve told him, but he blurted it out in the middle of dinner, and now Jaskier refuses to tell us unless we guess.”

“ _None_ of you know?”

“Well, Yennefer knows, because she had to heal him at one point and found out then. Ciri knows too, but that’s because Jaskier likes driving Geralt up the wall, so he told her, and she refuses to tell anyone else. But the rest of us? Nope.”

Aiden shakes his head. “And you say that Cats are weird.”

“It’s not like _you_ knew he wasn’t human when you met him—”

“He was drunk and demanding that I tell him whether the mutagens had been aimed at producing perfect scowls, I was too baffled to take much stock of him, now run me through the things he isn’t.”

Jaskier is not a changeling or a doppler, as mentioned above. But he is also not a nokk, a fossegrim, a siren, a godling, an elf or a faerie, a higher vampire, a merman cursed to walk on two legs, a trickster, or a—

“My guess is going to be that he fucked a god and they gifted him immortality in return,” Aiden says. Which is a really good guess, actually, and Lambert whines at him until he lets him share it, because it’s getting really hard to come up with new things that Jaskier could possibly be.

* * *

When they’re introduced and Aiden offers his guess, Jaskier cocks his head and smiles very slowly at them. Everyone—even Yen, who bloody _knows_ what he is—lean forward to hear his answer: “You are so very… _wrong_ , dear Cat.”

They don’t find out what Jaskier is that year either.

* * *

Of all the things that Lambert had been quietly nervous about introducing Aiden to at the Keep—from the Keep itself, with its ramshackle appearance and ghosts, to the embarrassing childhood stories and vague threats that are bound to come up once Geralt and Eskel get Aiden cornered—Vesemir had not actually been that high on his list of worries.

On one hand, he’s possibly the most important person Lambert could introduce Aiden to. Sure, his brothers and Coën are his closest friends, and he desperately wants Ciri to like Aiden and if not call him ‘uncle’ then at least accept him as one of their own, but Vesemir is… Lambert has always known that Vesemir was in his corner. Even through the Trials and Lambert’s many ( _many_ ) bouts of rage and spite, Vesemir has always showed up when Lambert needed him to. To scare away nightmares, to tell him stories before bedtime, to get him back on his feet, to make sure he wouldn’t die on the Path. To _listen_ when Lambert didn’t know what to say or how to say it.

He _knows_ Vesemir will do his damned best to make Aiden feel welcome. He’ll ignore old rivalries and see him as he is. So while it is overwhelming and anxiety inducing to introduce the two, Lambert never once fears Vesemir’s reaction to Aiden.

Aiden hasn’t expressed any worries either. Hasn’t made a peep beyond a few jokes. And yet, when they’re introduced, Aiden shakes his hand and says in a very rehearsed manner, “Thank you for inviting me and letting me stay the winter, m’lord—”, freezes, and visibly wishes to sink through the floor and become one with the molten core of the world.

Geralt and Eskel chortle in the background. Coën and Ciri elbow them. Ciri’s elbows are the pointiest and should be feared.

(Three nights later, Aiden will wake Lambert up in the middle of the night and whine, “Oh, gods, I called your dad _m’lord—_ ”)

Vesemir just claps him on the shoulder and tells him, “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, lad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://purpurred.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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